by Wendy Tyson
“And started The Love Chemist?”
“No, actually. I lived with Luke abroad for a year and tried to help him with his business. He’s an engineer who works with overseas start-ups. He helps companies looking to offshore their manufacturing facilities. I basically played glorified secretary for Luke.” Becca eyed Megan over the rim of her cup. “Until my dad visited Luke while we were living in Mexico.”
“By then you weren’t speaking with your dad.”
“Right.” Becca pushed her seat back, away from the table, and stared at the uneaten baked goods on her plate. “Dad didn’t know I was working for Luke—I’d forbidden Luke from telling him—and he showed up unexpectedly at Luke’s office. I was using the photocopier, but the machine was broken, so I was bent over, my back to the door, struggling to fix it. Dad came in and let out a long, slow whistle.” Becca’s face flushed. “He said ‘glad you finally got some attractive help’ to my brother.”
Horrified, Megan said, “What did you do?”
“I turned around slowly, letting him get a full look at the ‘attractive help’ Luke had hired. I thought I’d embarrass him.” Becca shook her head, the scowl on her face indicating she was clearly reliving the unpleasant memory. “He wasn’t embarrassed. In fact, he snorted and said ‘I stand corrected. You continue with your old ways, Luke.’ In other words, I was just another one of the ugly women Luke usually hired or dated.”
Megan let that sink in. A father humiliating his daughter that way? A man humiliating his son’s employee that way? Even if Paul had been joking, or if he hadn’t known that the woman at the copier was Becca, his behavior was reprehensible. Megan said, “You must have been hurt.”
Becca laughed. “He’d been telling me I was fat or ugly or unlovable since forever. That was nothing new. What bothered me—what really irked me—was having him see me like that, bent over a copier, as though my Master’s Degree in Chemistry meant nothing. It was a defining moment.”
Yet it still didn’t quite explain the love potions. “So why The Love Chemist?”
Becca grinned. “I combined the two things I knew—pheromones and scent manufacturing. Voila! A company is born.”
“Very creative. And it seems like it worked for you.”
“Perhaps, but it’s been a huge financial struggle ever since. I’ve poured literally every cent back into the business. Makes it hard to have a life.”
Megan stood to refill their coffee mugs. Becca’s had barely been touched, but Megan filled hers to the brim. “Becca,” she said while sitting back down. “The comment your dad made to Luke about continuing with his old ways. Did he usually talk to Luke like that?”
Becca’s eyes darkened. “My dad acted like he and Luke were brothers, not father and son. When Luke was young, dad would comment on his girlfriends. You know, little things about the size of their busts or the length of their hair. Sometimes he’d rate them. When Luke got older, it became more of a friendly competition. They thought it was funny.”
Megan put down the cookie she was about to eat. Just hearing about Paul’s treatment of women was making her feel ill. “Compete in what way?”
“Who had the hottest girlfriend? And after Mom passed, who had the most sexual encounters. That kind of thing.” Becca paused, thinking. “I know it’s gross, but maybe I was a little jealous of their relationship. At least they had one.”
Megan felt a wave of sympathy for Becca Fox. If even a few of her stories about her father were true, she could understand Becca’s disdain for the man. Looking at her now, she’d managed to get through her father’s demented view of the opposite sex—and parenthood—in one piece. Or were the scars just not immediately visible? Megan had to wonder.
Becca opened her mouth to say something else, but before she made a sound there was a strong knock at the door.
“Megan? It’s Bobby King.”
Megan stood and opened the door, a knot forming in her gut. “What can I help you with, Bobby? Clover’s not here—she’s at the store.”
“I’m afraid it’s not Clover I’m looking for.” With the door into the kitchen open, Bobby looked over Megan’s shoulder. “I tried calling you, but no one answered. I’ve been looking for Becca.” He fixed his stare to Becca, who still stared right back at him. “Becca, you need to come with me,” he said softly. “I have a few questions.”
Megan turned toward her guest, unsure what to think. A personal visit from Bobby King not long after your father’s death was unlikely to be a social call. But if Megan was expecting fear or surprise, she was wrong. Becca grabbed her coat and nodded, the look on her face one of relief.
Nine
After King and Becca left, Megan felt ill at ease. She knew she should mind her own business. It was just two weeks before Christmas and she had plenty to keep her busy at the farm and the café. Customer and restaurant orders. Catering local parties. The daily upkeep of the greenhouses, barn, and animals. And then there were her own holiday preparations—gifts to buy, food to prepare, a tree to cut down and decorate. Nevertheless, the look on Becca’s face stayed with her. It could have been the look of someone who just wanted answers. But it could also have been the look of someone flirting with the dodgy side of sanity.
Reluctantly, Megan returned to her chores, but her mind remained on Paul’s death. As she made her way through the snowy courtyard toward the goats’ enclosure, she considered King’s visit. If King was looking for Becca, he likely had news from the medical examiner. Megan hoped it was relatively benign news that wouldn’t mean more trouble for Winsome or Emily. A natural cause. But King’s presence could portend something more ominous. And Megan had gotten to know Winsome’s police chief well over the past year. If she was honest with herself, she recognized the stiff bearing, the formal demeanor, as King’s way of dealing with bad news.
Foul play?
Megan set out hay for the goats. The smell of the fresh hay was particularly sweet today. Sweet and fresh, a distinct contrast to winter’s earthy smells, reminding Megan of summer. And that’s when it hit her: the aroma she’d noticed at Emily’s rental house. Like fresh-cut hay. Or grass. Reminiscent of summer. And certain wines.
She knew that scent.
Inside she did a little more research, confirming her suspicions before she called King after dinner, once the animals were secure in their heated enclosures and while Bibi was playing Solitaire at the kitchen table. King didn’t answer, but he called her back from his personal cell phone within the hour.
“I figured I’d hear from you,” King said.
“I’m that predictable?”
“Back in Winsome for less than two years and already you’re in the thick of things.”
“I’m not in the thick of this one, I hope.” Megan paused. “That is, if there is a ‘this one.’ So is there, Bobby?”
Bobby sighed. “You mean why did I come looking for Becca Fox today?”
“That’s what I mean.”
“You know I can’t tell you that.”
“Then tell me this. Was her father’s death ruled suspicious?”
“Did she tell you that?”
“I haven’t talked to Becca since she left.” Megan stood up from her perch on the bed and walked to the window. She pulled the curtains aside and looked outside at the farm yard below. “But I think that’s a question you should be able to answer. A matter of public record.”
King took his time responding. Megan heard the sound of a car horn beeping, then the click of a door closing. Finally, the police chief said, “Yes. Based on the examination, Paul’s death was ruled suspicious.”
“I knew it,” Megan said to herself. Then, “Did Paul’s lungs show indications of non-cardiogenic pulmonary edema?”
“Yes.” Bobby sounded surprised. “How did you know?”
Fluid in the lungs not caused by heart failure. Megan knew if she kept naming
symptoms, King would continue saying yes. She was that certain about the smell. “Are they testing him for poisons?”
“Further tests are needed to confirm, but they think they have their culprit.” His voice went up an octave. “Why, Megan? What makes you ask this line of questions? Did Becca tell you something? Because if Becca told you something—”
“Are they testing for phosgene poisoning, Bobby?”
King’s silence was answer enough. It was Megan who spoke first. “That’s it, isn’t it? The medical examiner found extensive damage to the trachea, bronchi, and lungs, including edema. Maybe red, irritated eyes too. I could probably spout all sorts of medical terms, but in the end, they’re looking at phosgene. One of the chemicals used in World War I.” Megan slowed her speech, let Bobby absorb what she was saying. “Which probably means Paul was murdered.”
“How do you know all of this?”
Megan crossed her room and closed the door. From what she could tell, Bibi was still downstairs, but she didn’t want to take any chances.
“Don’t forget that I was an environmental lawyer. I once got called in to a case involving accidental phosgene poisoning at a pesticide factory. It wasn’t pretty—nine people died, fourteen others were hospitalized. All of the survivors reported smelling a pleasant fresh-cut hay scent before they fell ill.”
“And you noticed the smell while you were at Emily’s house?” Bobby’s tone was stern. “You could have told me.”
Megan brushed aside the rebuke. “I noticed a smell. I couldn’t place it at first, but then I was feeding the goats…anyway, I realized it was the lingering scent of phosgene.”
“Yes, nothing that could have harmed us while we were there, but then it would have dissipated. We think the gummy substance you found was duct tape on the windows.”
“Makes sense. Someone created an airtight space for quicker reaction.” Megan closed her eyes, thinking. “You know, phosgene doesn’t always work right away. Some of the people who got sick in the industrial accident took days to show severe symptoms.”
“So you think he was poisoned earlier?”
“I saw Paul the night before he was killed. He was breathing heavily, coughing. His eyes looked irritated. He blamed it on a cold. I think he thought he had a cold.”
“But it was exposure to phosgene?”
“It’s a possibility. He could have thought he had some form of respiratory virus, if the symptoms were mild. Or allergies, given the eyes.”
“If he was showing symptoms then, that could mean it was accidental. That there was a leak somehow in the house.”
“Phosgene’s not like natural gas. It doesn’t just leak under normal residential circumstances.”
“Emily had contractors there. We’d need to rule out an accident.” King sighed. “But if the victim was showing symptoms before the night of his death, it could also mean—”
“That whoever poisoned him had been poisoning him for days. And had access to the house.”
“The autopsy should show that. Why would someone target Paul?”
Megan considered what she’d heard about Paul Fox. A man who elicited such strong reactions—someone willing to bend reality to his own needs, someone who took sadistic pleasure in wounding others—would have enemies.
“I don’t know, Bobby,” Megan said. She clutched a pillow to her chest, as much for protection as for comfort. “But whoever killed him wanted him to suffer. Phosgene poisoning is a horrible way to go.”
The conversation with Bobby King haunted Megan long after lights were out. Tucked under the thick quilt Bibi had made her when she returned to Winsome, Sadie nestled against her legs, Megan thought about the man who’d died and the legacy of pain—at least in Becca’s eyes—that he’d left behind. She thought about Becca, a young woman who’d made her own way in the world but who carried so much hate. She thought about the death of a mother, and the subsequent death of a husband.
She thought about another murder in Winsome.
She thought about Bobby King, a police chief whose heart was in the right place, but who’d had to deal with more in his young career than many cops endured over a lifetime. And she thought about the fact that he’d confided in her. He trusted her.
She’d earned his trust.
Phosgene. A nasty chemical. When she left the practice of law she thought she’d left nasty chemicals and environmental hazards behind. At least that had been her intent.
Megan turned over, punched her pillow. The air in her room felt heavy, matching the weight on her chest.
Another murder. She told herself this wasn’t her problem.
Only she never had been very good at listening. Or at taking her own advice.
Ten
Denver was already in the farmhouse kitchen when Megan came down for breakfast the next morning. His reddish-brown hair was tousled, and several days’ growth of auburn beard shadowed his face. He wore jeans and a thick navy blue sweater that perfectly highlighted broad shoulders and a tapered back. He gave her an appreciative smile when he saw her, his eyes full of warmth—and questions.
Megan kissed him. She knew he was wondering why she was up so late, and what was going on with Paul. She glanced in Bibi’s direction, silently pleading with Denver that any discussion wait.
Denver nodded, stood, and said, “How can I help you with breakfast, Bonnie?”
Bibi was making pancakes at the stove. She turned toward Denver. Flipping a slightly burnt pancake to Gunther, she said, “Why don’t you get yourself some more coffee if you want it. Otherwise, just sit and I’ll have breakfast on the table in no time.”
While Denver poured coffee for himself and Megan, Megan settled at the table. There were five place settings. It was only 5:47 a.m. Megan had overslept, but she knew that was early for anyone who didn’t own a farm or make early-morning veterinary calls. “Who else is joining us?”
“Clay’s already up at the barn, so I told him to come down.” Bibi glanced warmly at Denver, looking, perhaps, for an ally. “And your Aunt Sarah is stopping over.”
“Aunt Sarah? Why?”
Bibi wiped clean hands on a red and green checked apron that had “Celebrate the holidays in Winsome!” scrawled across the front in fancy script—another leftover salvaged from Megan’s father’s failed souvenir shop. Bibi twisted the well-worn twill material in her hands. “She wants to see you.”
“She wants to see me?” Megan hadn’t had any meaningful conversation with her great aunt—her grandfather’s sister—since the fall. Their short interaction in the parking lot of Merry’s nursery hardly counted. As casually as she could, Megan said, “What about?”
Bibi placed a high stack of blueberry pancakes on the table next to a glass pitcher of warmed Vermont maple syrup. She returned to the stove, pulled a baking dish out of the oven, and placed hot sausage on the table. Megan breathed in the fragrance of home, grateful for the respite.
She forked a pancake and a piece of sausage on her plate. If she didn’t eat, Bibi would harass her. And she suddenly felt ravenous. “Well?” she said between mouthfuls. “What does Aunt Sarah want?”
“Sounds like ye can ask her yourself,” Denver said. He smiled over his coffee mug. “She just pulled in.”
Megan frowned. It wasn’t unusual for Denver to stop by after morning rounds, or even earlier if he had to make early morning house calls—like today. Bibi loved cooking for him, and Megan loved seeing him in their kitchen. But today she wanted to pull him aside and speak to him alone. She’d been shaken by her conversation with Bobby King, and she wanted to bounce some ideas off someone. But that wasn’t going to happen. The door opened and Clay came inside, followed closely by Sarah.
Sarah was always a sight. A towering woman with a solid frame, Sarah’s style could be described as artsy-bohemian. She was fond of soft kaftans and native prints in saturated colors, her long
gray hair typically braided in one long rope. Today she wore all black—black pants, black sweater, black coat. And her hair hung in loose waves around her head. But most noticeable were her hands. While her body slid into the kitchen chair with military bearing, her hands danced and flitted across the worn wooden surface, a traitor to their host.
“Coffee or tea,” Bibi said, her voice firm. Sarah could choose which—but she would have one.
“Coffee, please, Bonnie. Thanks.”
While Bibi poured her coffee, Sarah turned to Megan. She looked like she wanted to say something but couldn’t. She let out a sigh, adjusted her silverware. Those hands continued to dance. Bibi finally handed her a cup, and with her hands occupied, she seemed to relax. A little.
Megan speared two more pancakes and passed the dish to Sarah, who declined. Clay took three pancakes and passed them to Denver.
“Have any more over there, Bonnie?” Clay asked. Her farm manager acted oblivious to the tension in the room. A lanky, handsome man in his twenties, Clay had morphed from employee to friend. He was highly attuned to people’s emotions, and Megan knew he’d probably picked up on Sarah’s case of nerves. He was politely ignoring the sense of unease, preferring to adhere to morning ritual to make other people more comfortable. That was Clay’s way.
Bonnie returned to making pancakes. A few minutes of pregnant silence blanketed the room. Gunther broke the quiet with a deep bark in the direction of the driveway.
Megan glanced at her watch. It was 6:08. “Who could that be?” She stood, pulling her heavy gray cardigan sweater tighter around her chest. It was still dark outside. “I’ll go see.”
Denver stood. “I’ll come with ye, Megs.” He pulled a hat over his ears and tugged on his coat.
Outside, the air felt frigid against her skin. A fine snowy mist blew across the courtyard, and the exterior lights captured swirls of snow mid-dance. Megan looked up, toward the woods and Potter Hill, remembering a time when she was being watched, when every one of Gunther’s barks shot sparks of adrenaline down her spine.
